Horrors of the Deep [Anthology]

192 Pages·2016·0.86 MB·English

by  Aqua Atrocitas

ATROCITAS AQUA
All rights reserved © 2003 Various
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in Canada by
Double Dragon eBooks, a division of Double Dragon Publishing, Markham, Canada.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination
or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.

Cover design by Deron Douglas
ISBN: 1-55404-022-1
First Edition eBook Publication January 31, 2003
Atrocitas Aqua: Horrors of the Deep
Listing of Stories

Introduction Dave Bowlin
Bone Lake Justin Stanchfield
Stooshie by Th’ Loch Megan Powell
Shadow of the Swamp Paul Melniczek
Beneath the Loch Bob L. Morgan Jr.
Living Doll: Jewel of Lost Souls Peggy Jo Shumate
Halo of Blood Jason Brannon
Swamper Walt Hicks
Atianqua L. J. Blount
On the Waterfront Shawn P.Madison
Water of the Rock Susanne S. Brydenbaugh
Creating a Barbarian Man L. Shrewsbury
Black Thorn Christopher Fulbright
Captain O’Grady Blues’ Key West Aquarium HORNS
How Deep is Your Love G. W. Thomas
When the Lady of Byblos Calls Steve E. Wedel
Old Debts David Bowlin
Introduction

Herman Melville said it best when he proclaimed that every path eventually leads to the sea. For it is
the sea that holds our most sacred and terrifying fears, yet it also holds a glorious mysticism over us as
a race, an attraction so strong that most of us flock to beaches, river banks, creeks, and lakes at every
opportunity to stare out into the vast blueness and wonder: what's out there?

It is this unquenchable desire to know the unattainable and challenge the unknown that drives us and
defines us as a species. Our hearts are forever locked away within the depths of the oceans that
surround us, and we continually yearn to be part of this mystical world below our own. Perhaps this is
due in large part because we ourselves are mostly made of water, and feel our amphibious past calling
for us to return to our natural home, to return to the womb of this world where we first breathed and
swam in its virgin bosom.

Yet, it could be something darker that leads us back to the water's edge time and again. Could it be that
the dark and chilly waters whisper to the darker side of the human heart, breathing its poisonous fumes
into our minds as gently as a mist washing over a barren and deserted beach, seeking to engulf
whomever is found without, unprotected?

Whether our birthing as a people is of the ocean or not, one thing is clear and undeniable: most of us
guard a deep and profound respect for the waters that cover seventy-five percent of our world. There is
no other topic or substance so marvelously feared and revered as our oceans and lakes and streams.

Take my hand, Dear Reader, and swim with me through this journey of sixteen tales of watery terror.
As we swim, if something reaches out of the darkness and gropes for your ankle, if something pulls you
deeper into the depths of liquid madness, if your breath is stolen from you and you find yourself
inhaling nothing but muddied water... do not fear, for it is just the ocean reclaiming what is already
hers: your soul.

I'll be here beside you, if you should need me. Just scream.

~David Bowlin
BONE LAKE
Justin Stanchfield

Montana Territory, 1883

Ice melted off the sod roof, fat drops wicking down the icicles hanging from the eaves, split splat, split
splat to the frozen ground. The Chinook was late, February bleeding into March, the dawn outside the
little cabin sullen and cold. Annie Tate poured coffee into a chipped enameled cup, trying not to spill,
her hand shaking despite the smoky heat blazing out the cookstove. Her left eye hurt, the bruise around
it puffy, painful to the touch. A few drops sloshed over the rim, darkening the plank table. For a
moment she thought the man seated in front of her might strike her again, but he did nothing, silent as
death. She set the pot back on the stove.

"Don’t go." She squeezed her eyes shut, biting her lip to keep from crying. She was so tired of tears.
"Isaac... don’t go."

He said nothing, simply drained his cup then pushed away from the table, his shadow large in the coal-
oil flicker. Spurs jangled, sharp rowels dragging the hard dirt floor. Annie watched as he pulled on his
long canvas coat then wound a silk scarf around his throat, the bright red cloth a contrast to his dark
nature. Isaac Tate stared at her, his eyes lost in the gloom. Outside, a horse whickered, hooves sloshing
through the knee-deep snow. He reached for the door handle.

"Isaac?" Annie wrapped her arms around herself. "How long will you be gone?"

"Long as it takes," he said at last. "Why should you care?"

"You’re my husband."

"Fine time to realize it." He pulled the door open, the dank smell of melting snow pouring in. ‘Billy’s
here. I’ve got to go."

"You’re just going to leave me here?"

"The cows are starving. They can’t wait till spring." He reached behind the open door, found his
carbine, the barrel gray in the half-dawn, knuckles white around the stock. Isaac snugged his tattered
black hat down and stepped outside. Annie took a deep breath and followed him as far as the doorway,
shivering in the chill.

"I’m going to have a baby."

Isaac stopped, but didn’t turn, rain-rich wind whipping around him, moaning through the little stand of
pine behind the corrals. His grip tightened around the rifle. "Maybe you ought to talk to Billy about
that."

Annie watched through tears as he wandered the muddy path to the barn, icy water spilling down her
back like blood across the killing floor.

***

Dewey’s Flat, Montana, Present Day

Mick Saurbeir pulled off the blacktop and parked his Taurus next to a dented flatbed, a bored heeler
dog laying on it, watching him, head rested on his paws, ears flicking as Mick stepped past. He twisted
at the waist, loosening his stiff back as he studied the little town. Gas station, post office, a tavern on
either side of the highway that served as the town’s single street. He reached back into his car for his
scuffed briefcase, leaning across the seat. The car needed washing. So did he. Mick straightened, not
bothering to lock the door, and walked toward the nearest bar, the screen-door creaking as he stepped
inside.

A painfully thin woman behind the bar turned away from the television hung above the shelves of half-
full bottles, and limped toward him. A boozy kid, no more than twenty, the only other person in the
room, barely glanced his way, his eyes not half as bright as the dog outside. The woman leaned her
elbows on the linoleum covered bar and smiled.

"What can I get you?"

"Coke, thanks." Mick fished a wrinkled twenty out of his wallet. She came back from the cooler and set
the familiar red and black can in front of him, beads of condensation sweating on the silk smooth
container.

"Need a glass?"

"No. This is fine." He took a long drink, the too-sweet pop tickling his nose, draining half the can in the
first swallow. He wanted a beer, wanted it desperately. These were the hard times, the lonely days
when just the thought of that first cold rush pouring down his throat sang in his blood, humming him
back to the blur he had wasted too many years inside. He took another sip of Coke, resigned that he
would never again dare sample anything stronger. He was tired. More tired than he wanted to admit,
the years and the miles taking their toll. Slowly, he set the briefcase on the stool beside him and opened
it. A notebook and a micro-recorder sat beside an envelope full of photographs. He slipped one of the
photos out, a High School picture of a pretty, brown-haired girl, and laid it in front of the bartender.
"Ever seen this woman?"

The bartender turned the picture around and studied it, frowning slightly, tapping her left hand against
the bar, the cheap silver ring on her finger clicking softly. Mick thought he saw a glimmer of
recognition and pushed his luck a bit further. "Her name is Jennifer Mitchell, but she might be going by
Jenny Hale."

The woman stared at Mick from under her thin, plucked eyebrows, suspicious. The boozy kid at the
other end of the bar slid down and looked over Mick’s shoulder, his breath reeking. He stared at the
picture, his head wobbling.

"You a cop or something?"

"I’m an investigator." Mick pushed the picture closer to the kid. "Her parents hired me to find her. She
left Salt Lake City last February, and they haven’t heard from her since."

"Salt Lake?" The kid glanced at the can of Coca-cola, a look of disgust washing over his face. "You a
God damned Mormon?"

Mick laughed. "Nope. Just thirsty. Do you know her?"

"Looks a little like that Janey who took up with Timmy Garr. What do you think, Vick?"

The bartender said nothing, but Mick was certain she agreed, her cheeks sucked in, looking steadfastly
away. He turned back to the kid. "You wouldn’t have an address for her, would you? They told me in
Butte she might have moved out here." The kid swung his head, the movement exaggerated and slow.
Mick sighed and took a business card out of his case and laid it on the bar. He finished the pop and
stood up. "Well, thanks anyhow. Mind if I leave the picture here? My cell number’s on the back if
anyone recognizes her."

"Ain’t no coverage out here," the kid slurred, turning back to the television, the encounter already
forgotten. The bartender smiled apologetically as Mick shut his briefcase. He swept up his change,
leaving a couple dollars on the bar, and walked back outside. The air was cool, tinged by the scent of
sagebrush and diesel fuel, the mountains ringing the deep valley framed by slate gray clouds. A gust of
wind sent a plastic cup skipping across the road. He stood a moment, wondering if he should try the
post office or the other tavern next, or just say to hell with it all and drive on. The screen-door banged
open behind him.

The bartender walked toward him, her limp more pronounced on the uneven gravel, the photo in hand.
She gave it back to him. "Look, mister..."

"Saurbier. Mick Saurbier."

"Okay, Mr. Saurbier. I didn’t want to say nothing around Donny. He can’t keep his mouth shut." She
took a deep breath. "I know that girl. ‘Cept she goes by the name Janey Hall, now."

"Know where I can find her?"
She stared at Mick, holding his eye. "You really working for her folks?"

"Yes, I am."

"She’s living with a guy named Timmy Garr up by Bone Lake. She isn’t quite right in the head, if you
ask me." She waited while Mick scribbled the information down. "And, Mr. Saurbier?"

"Yeah?" Something in her voice made him edgy.

"Be careful. Tim Garr is an asshole. But he’s a tough asshole." She hobbled away while. Mick waited
until she was gone, then turned the ignition, rolling up the windows, suddenly cold for no reason.

***

Montana Territory, 1883

The wind was stronger, shifting to the North, the warm, damp Chinook finished. The rain was turning
to snow, tiny flakes stinging Annie’s cheeks as she heaved against the sagging corral gate. The horses
inside ran past her, tails high, smelling the storm, kicking up wet clumps of crap-stained snow. Annie
ducked, avoiding the dangerous hooves. She didn’t like horses. They frightened her, the sheer power in
their sleek bodies a force untamed. Around her they ran, finally settling down to sniff the grain bucket
in her hand. She wrapped a soft rope around a dun mare’s neck and led her out of the muddy corral.
Her feet already cold, Annie saddled the mare, fumbling with the cinch, dreading what lay ahead.

Snow fell heavier, the wind rising, trees swaying as she stepped into the saddle, settling uncomfortably
into the stiff leather. The mare danced, pawing the ground with her front feet, angry at being cut away
from the others. Annie struggled with the reigns, dragging the mare’s head around and kicking her
uselessly in the ribs. She kicked harder, digging with her heels. The mare snorted but stepped out,
following the wide swath the hungry cattle had left in the snow, heading toward the low, timbered gap
leading to the lake and the trail beyond. Annie wrapped one hand around the saddle horn as the mare
broke into a trot, slipping now and then on the icy path.

She had been a fool for falling in love with Billy Conlin. She’d been a bigger fool for letting Isaac find
out. It was one thing for a man to lose a wife, far another to lose his partner. Isaac had lost both.
Shivering and sick, she spurred the mare faster, afraid she was already too late. Snow swirled past,
blinding her as she topped the stony ridge, a few boulders peeking up from sickle-shaped drifts. Annie
waited as the gust settled down, trying to find her bearings, the trail rapidly vanishing under the falling
whiteness. It disoriented her, turning her sense of direction around. Were it not for the broad trail the
cattle had stomped as they followed the sleigh load of moldy hay off the ridge she would have been
lost. The mare danced nervously, trying to turn her rump to the storm. Annie kicked her and started
down.

Ahead, through a narrow gap in the scrub pine, she caught a glimpse of the sleigh, the little herd strung
out behind, moving slowly toward a broad, perfectly flat expanse of snow. At the lead rode a single
rider, breaking trail a hundred paces in front. Annie’s stomach lurched as she realized Isaac was leading
Billy and the heavy, horse drawn sled straight across the frozen lake.

From far below she heard a crack, rifle sharp, muffled softly by the swirling snow.

***

Mick Saurbier drove the Taurus as far as he dared, the dirt road more suited for a four wheel drive than
a highway car. He pulled off in a small meadow, the tires bouncing across the deep ruts, trying to avoid
the rocks poking up, then started on foot, huffing in the thin air, the road steep and uneven. Sweat ran
down his back by the time he topped the ridge, his windbreaker hanging open as he stopped to catch his
breath. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and started off again, the .357 Smith strapped
under his left arm chaffing. He had thought about leaving it behind, but the bartenders warning made
him think twice. The road leveled, twisting through boulder patches and stands of lodgepole, mistletoe
choking the trunks, leaving misshapen growths bulging from their scaly bark.

The wind shifted, carrying the dank wet kiss of deep water with it. Mick pulled a folded map out of his
back pocket, trying to make sense of the tangled skeins of abandoned logging roads and trails. He had
stopped at the local Forest Service long enough to buy the map and ask the girl behind the front desk
for directions. She had painstakingly traced the route to Bone Lake in red felt-tip marker, no doubt
dying to ask why he wanted to go there. From the scattered reactions he had gotten around the little
town it was clear most people held the same opinion of Tim Garr as the bartender. He stuffed the map
back in his pocket, wishing the encounter was already over.
The road steepened once more, then abruptly ended on top of a small, wooded bench, a locked metal
gate barring his path. A faded ‘No Trespassing’ sign hung on the wooden brace post, slapping in the
breeze against the barb wire beneath it. Mick climbed over the gate, his weight dragging it down,
swinging it wildly. He jumped to the ground on the other side, his ankle twisting painfully as he lit.

"Shit." He stood a moment, letting the pain subside. "Hell of a missing persons case this is."

He walked on, the hair along the base of his neck rising. Mick had never been a cop, never even been a
fan of mystery novels or thrillers. Why he had become a private investigator remained the biggest
unsolved mystery of his life. It was hard, dangerous work, and were it not for a certain talent in finding
lost things, he would have given it up ages ago. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was already past four
o’clock. He glanced up at the sky, the clouds darker, twisted and gray, writhing around the jagged
peaks. Ahead, the road broke into a small, hilly meadow.

Once it had been a hay field, traces of ditches hidden beneath clumps of dry, yellowed grass. Sagebrush
and gopher holes dominated the meadow now, prickly stands of gooseberry poking up through the piles
of rotted fence poles and rocks. A forlorn plow lay tipped on its side, rusting into oblivion, while
further below, nestled beside a marshy spring, stood a handful of tumbled buildings, the roofs
collapsed, an ancient corral lying in broken heaps behind it. Not far away stood a camp trailer, the
aluminum sides faded and dull. Mick squinted, looking for signs of life, but found nothing. More
nervous than before, he trudged toward the trailer, glad now he had brought the pistol.

A faint chemical whiff clung to the trailer. Mick shook his head, disgusted. He had never been a cop
but he recognized a meth lab when he found one.

"Well, well, Jennie," he muttered, "Aren’t your parents going to be proud when I tell them where I
found their little girl." He rapped against the door, trying not to act as nervous. He was about to rap
again when he heard footsteps behind him.

A girl in a long, gray coat rode past the ruined barn, seated high on a dun colored mare. Mick waved at
her, trying to catch her attention. If she saw him, she paid no attention. He waved harder, shouting.
"Hey? Hello?"

The woman ignored him, kicking the horse hard in the sides, taking off at a canter toward a low saddle
in the hills behind the abandoned homestead. Mick stood, angry at his luck, and started in the direction
she had gone, his ankle throbbing. He paused a moment to check his watch. Madder than before, he
looked back toward the girl on horseback, but already she was gone.

***
Montana Territory, 1883